


an offering of grace

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: Plo likes sitting on the floor. One thing leads to another, and before they know it Wolffe's got his very own work of art in his bed.
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 8
Kudos: 166





	an offering of grace

Plo has the strange habit of sitting on the floor whenever he has the chance. It’s not a Jedi thing - Wolffe checked, and most everyone else is perfectly happy to use a chair, barring a tail or other complicating anatomical features. Plo has neither, which makes his insistence on wedging himself in the walk space between the table and chair of his common room in lieu of working at his desk completely incomprehensible. Aside from the first time Wolffe entered Plo’s quarters, found him lying still on the ground, and nearly started a ship-wide search for an assassin, he’s learned to accept it as normal and just - do whatever it is he was going to do anyway. 

Most of the time, Plo cranes his head back as Wolffe passes by, offering a smile; or picks up his work and moves to the end of the table closest to Wolffe while he reads, coming out of his bureaucracy-induced trance when Wolffe nudges him with a knee so he can get up. It’s just a thing they do, like some people sprawl on each other on the couch or hold hands every time they leave the house. 

And gradually, Plo decides if he’s going to be moving every time Wolffe wants a drink, he might as well go and get the drink and save Wolffe the trouble; and if he’s going to be sitting near Wolffe’s conveniently-placed legs, he might as well lean on them too; and Wolffe decides that he’s basically got a handrest _right there_ and it would be a shame not to use it when it gives him such a solid feeling of belonging, having Plo’s pulse point right in reach if he just extends his fingers. It’s hardly anything to go from there to curling a hand around Plo’s jaw while he presses his head into Wolffe’s thigh, or pressing on his shoulder to get him to go to his knees. 

And Wolffe is already used to holding Plo while they lie in bed, but the thought occurs to him he could hold Plo _down_ if he wanted, that Plo would look beautiful flat on his back with Wolffe sitting on his belly and pinning his wrists to the mattress, and he doesn’t have the most sophisticated aesthetic eye but he knows art when he sees it, he knows music when he hears it, and people are supposed to interact with art, aren’t they? A little push here, a press there, and he’s got his own damn gallery in his bed, trying so hard to be good for him and hold still even when his limbs are aching and his bruises are tender. The effort is the beauty; especially when Plo could easily just . . . not. Could topple Wolffe with a word, a look, less. 

He’s counting Plo’s ribs, pressing his fingers into the divots between them one by one, and Plo is trying to focus on keeping his breath steady while Wolffe skims over the healing scrape on his arm, and Wolffe settles with his hands on Plo’s collarbones, his fingers brushing his throat. It doesn’t mean the same thing, doesn’t carry the same threat; Plo knows and smiles, baring his neck, but it _feels_ the same, feels like he’s holding Plo’s life in his hands. He can feel his own pulse beating counterpoint to Plo’s, and it’s the closest thing to divine he’s ever had. 

**Author's Note:**

> All I can say is I was dared _and_ drunk.


End file.
